


Innermost

by prowlish



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, i have no idea how to tag this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 20:37:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6722467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prowlish/pseuds/prowlish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Megatron's healing, and an offering is placed at his side. (MTMTE #52 spoilers)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Innermost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arianne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianne/gifts).



> My dear friend came up with this really sweet image and it struck me, and then turned into this. 
> 
> Drift/Megatron if you squint. (I always have my goggles on with them so uh.)

-[IV]-

 

This wasn’t looking good.

 

That, more than anything, let Ratchet know they were really back. They were all in terrible, horrible trouble, and it wasn’t looking good for them. And he was once again tasked with saving Megatron’s life. He snorted. How did  _ that  _ keep happening? Why was it so second nature to him to keep working? To stabilize Megatron’s condition and repair what he could of the others’ injuries?

 

The DJD would be coming down on them come sundown. Ratchet didn’t like being morbid about such things, but -- well. It just wasn’t looking good. Rodimus hadn’t needed to pull him aside for him to understand that, but specifics had been welcome. Megatron’s arrival, beaten and with fusion cannon holes deep in his chest -- and how familiar was he with  _ that _ injury! -- had understandably disrupted his reunion with the crew. 

 

He sighed, peering around the quiet room. A poor excuse for a medibay, but it was what they could do with what they had. Inevitably, his gaze landed on Megatron, and he had to admit it was disturbing to see him so -- fragile. Even when he’d put him together the first time, back on Cybertron, Megatron had been awake and snarking right along with him.

 

Now, he was too quiet, too still, with his optics dark and large, fresh welds on his chestplate. 

 

Ratchet frowned, but then his optics picked out something new. He squinted -- was it actually…?

 

When he took a step closer, he saw that he was correct: on the shelf next to the slab that was serving as Megatron’s berth for the moment, a tiny vial of innermost energon.

 

“I’ll be damned,” he said softly.

 

But who put that there?  _ That _ was the real question, and Ratchet knew he’d be chewing over that one for a while.

 

-[III]-

 

Pulling Ratchet aside wasn’t mandatory, Rodimus knew. But with Drift’s grim observations and the swordsmech still lingering behind him, he felt it was better. Drift was a big mech and could handle all the news, sure, but he wanted to minimize the talk of the DJD and their  _ showdown at sunset _ slag. It just felt… polite.

 

Not something he strived for a lot, but for Drift, for him finally being back, for his acceptance… 

 

So he’d smiled at Drift as he pulled Ratchet aside, claiming he wanted to talk about a few things. Ratchet appeared annoyed, as usual, but he set aside whatever he’d been fussing with -- a scanner damaged in their shuttle, he thought -- and followed him, leaving Drift standing in the doorway with an odd expression on his face.

 

Drift appeared to be holding something, but it was hard to tell with his hands in fists at his sides. But he offered a smile as Rodimus looked over his shoulder again, the expression easing the icy clench of his spark somewhat.

 

-[II]-

 

He didn’t remember much after hauling his frame back onto the space scooter. Somehow he managed to pilot it, to direct it back to safety (funny wasn’t it, to think of a bunch of ultimately doomed Autobots as  _ safety? _ ), to get himself away from old students and mechs claimed dead thrice over. 

 

The next thing he was aware of was repair integration flashing dully on his HUD. Megatron dismissed it, not quite conscious enough to observe what was happening around him, but conscious enough for that, at least.

 

And conscious enough to be aware of the pain, hot like fire all through his frame, but especially his face and chestplates. 

 

He’d felt this kind of pain before, and this near unconsciousness was the best way to deal with it.

 

Again, right on the narrow bridge of consciousness, he heard voices. None talking to him, but why would they? He was mostly dead at the moment and he wasn’t lying to himself about that at least. Recognition was there, but placing them was too much effort. All that mattered was that he heard them, and then he didn’t.

 

Were they giving up on him? He wasn’t sure he’d blame them, but he was still hanging on, dammit. Clinging to life had become a mastered art in his hands.

 

Now it was quiet, but somehow Megatron had the sense he still wasn’t alone. So he tried his optics. 

 

Not his best idea; they weren’t working very well and gave him mostly dim, grey shapes -- formless and yet bright enough that it gave him a terrible ache in his processors. Megatron  grunted, shuttering them, and blinking again when one of the shapes moved.

 

He didn’t have time to identify any of it when he felt a tender kiss to the side of his helm. Some other mech, obviously, but who? Who, honestly, would display an affection towards him, even under such dire threats and him on what could be his deathbed?

 

Then there was a sound -- a soft  _ clink _ . 

 

Megatron looked again, trying to  _ see _ , earning a great throbbing in his helm but discerning a small shape on the near shelf. Innermost energon?

 

_ Who? _

 

He looked again. The mass of shapes that was the mech had retreated -- Primus the mech made not a whisper of a sound! -- and something about the lines of the helm were familiar.

 

Softly, he murmured a name, an old name… but there was no reply and just this much had wiped what little energy he had for the waking world.

 

Megatron slept again.

 

-[I]-

 

Landing on this planet had become a series of increasingly strange scenes and predicaments to find himself in. The  _ Lost Light _ effect, as it were, Drift thought with something of a smile. Nevermind that from what he understood, the ship was long, long gone. 

 

There wasn’t a proper medical bay, but Ratchet was good at improvising. Used to it, even. He and Velocity had done what they could, working with the supplies that had survived Ravage’s crash-landing near the fortress.

 

Somehow, the most bizarre part was following Rodimus there, watching from the doorway as he clutched the offering in his hand. Rodimus hadn’t been there when he’d drawn it -- he’d been very quick to rush to Megatron’s side.

 

That, in itself, was even stranger. But Drift didn’t comment on it. Ratchet had told him about everything that had happened since he’d left, but experiencing it was different.

 

Even more different: seeing Megatron laying on a makeshift slab, the grey of his frame somehow appearing cold to him when it had always looked hot and alive before. 

 

_ Poetry? _ He thought wryly to himself. He looked over his shoulder again, though there was no point; Rodimus and Ratchet were out of sight, and Velocity was back at the crash site, seeing if anything else was salvageable from the wreckage.

 

Drift stepped inside. 

 

There was a strange thrill in his spark. Like he’d be caught -- as if he were doing anything  _ wrong _ . True, he’d never really left an offering like this before, but that hardly seemed to matter. And, strange as it may seem to some, there was no way he  _ couldn’t _ imagine pulling a vial of innermost energon for Megatron.

 

As much as he’d later abandoned the path he’d walked down with the mech, Megatron had saved him, too. The Decepticons were reason he hadn’t been doomed to a gutter in the Dead End.

 

His hand tightened around the vial when he approached Megatron’s side and found the mech’s optics online, straining. Drift wasn’t entirely sure Megatron could see him… not that it mattered. But still he found it uncanny -- he hadn’t been face to face with Megatron in a  _ long _ time.

 

_ Too long _ , part of him whispered.

 

The kiss was spontaneous, but it felt right too, and he very carefully set the vial on the shelf next to his helm.

 

There. Offering made. And it -- and so much more -- could be talked about if they both lived to see another day. 

 

Only a few steps away from the berth, he heard a soft, rough murmur: “Drift?”

 

Drift paused, feeling a soft tug on his spark, a warm murmur of nostalgia through his memory circuits. But he said nothing, and he quickly left.

 

Later. They could speak later, when Megatron was stronger.

 

But for now he could hold close in his spark that Megatron had called his name. His  _ real _ name.

 

**Author's Note:**

> visit me on [@prowlish](https://twitter.com/prowlish) on twitter!! :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [dawnbreak](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7625365) by [prowlish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prowlish/pseuds/prowlish)




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